


Being alright

by shittershutter



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7799086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you’re pretty good at managing the crazy, all things considered.” It’s a lame attempt at pep talk, but it’s as generous as Tig feels today. “You should do more reading on the pills, though”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being alright

**Author's Note:**

> * unbetad 
> 
> (I'd actually love to have a beta to save me from public humiliation, but I have no idea where to look for them these days).

The doctor Tig sends in looks exceptionally unmemorable -- grey suit and small shiny glasses -- the kind of a faceless person you can never identify in the police lineup no matter how hard you squint. 

He doesn’t introduce himself and studies Chibs up and down in a way that would definitely earn him a broken face any other day. Chibs just points at the bedroom door down the corridor instead, meek as an usher in his own house, and tries his best not to engage in the concerned partner routine Tig has warned him against.

“Better yet, don’t look him in the eye. Or he’ll diagnose you with all the shit”.

He leans against the wall with a sigh and thinks of the simpler times of booze and drugs. Those were reliable, at least in a sense that he knew what to expect of them every time. This new psycho-pharmaceutical wave that sloshed into the market and drowned everyone in delirious confusion and mad money -- he still can’t get it, can’t trust it. 

And trust is crucial with controlled substances. You’re not obligated to love them, but some credence is necessary. Otherwise, they’ll kill you. 

Juice doesn’t look like he’s dying when he finds him earlier, he looks much worse -- like he’s slipped away somewhere Chibs can’t follow. 

He crouches down in front of him and rubs his knuckles, one by one, trying to help him focus on something physical. He has read somewhere it’d help, but there is a tell-tale cold clamminess to Juice’s skin and he can’t warm it up, not at all. 

He asks if Juice can get up and gets a weak ‘no’ shake and no eye contact.

His voice sounds almost chill when he makes a call. Tig, in turn, sounds bored and almost disappointed as soon as he hears the details: no hallucinations or seizures, and it’s not even a proper catatonia kid’s currently overtaken with. 

“New medication doesn’t sit well with him, that’s all,” he says. “I’ll send a guy.”

Tig then goes on and on -- to entertain him while he waits -- reminiscing about those sweet times when his mind took off into the wild, leaving his dick running, along with a few limbs -- not all of them, mind you -- his mind took off, but his body stayed. And back then, Tig didn’t have anyone to take care of it. 

“So you’re pretty good at managing the crazy, all things considered.” It’s a lame attempt at pep talk, but it’s as generous as Tig feels today. “You should do more reading on the pills, though”.

He tries his hardest, and with the fear and the perplexity, there is a tiny shred of appreciation. 

Juice’s crazy makes him realise he loves the kid, after all. In a weird, twisted way it does. He stands in the bathroom one day, studying the wrinkles and the scars slicing his skin -- and it comes to him that a tenth of all of that emotional baggage would make him leave any other person. Just turn around, apologize for the time wasted and ignore the shattered look on Juice’s face for the rest of his life. He’s old, he’s seen shit and what he looks for in life is a good drink and a drama-free blowjob every once and awhile, that’s all.

Yet, he cannot leave -- it’s almost a physical pull he last felt decades ago -- and he knows he’s fucked and feels oddly elevated by the thought. 

+++

Chibs comes into the room after the man's done and gone, cubes of ice in his unfinished drink clinking, and in the grey light of early morning, the vague shape of Juice’s body looks too still. The meticulously recreated manifestation of his own private nightmare, he looks dead, wrapped in sheets to the very neck, like they’re burial cloths. 

Faint stench of ammonia floats in the air, but other than that, no extraneous smell disturbs the atmosphere.

Chibs proceeds to stare into the dense grey, getting progressively colder by the minute, but unable to break the mantra of Juice’s deep breaths to get his share of the blanket. 

“Don’t be weird about it,” Juice mutters, his voice small. “I’ll try, too.”

Chibs jumps a little, and there are the whites of Juice’s eyes gleaming in the half-light, dissolving back into nothing when he blinks. 

“Doing my best,” he has to cough sharply to get the words out. “Just not sure how to deal with...“ -- he nearly says “crazy”, but swallows it down so hard he chokes on it.

“You can hold me,” Juice unwraps himself and holds the covers for the other man to get in. He doesn’t smile, but he’s almost about to. “It’s the old-fashioned way”.

The second he gets into the warmth of the sheets and Juice’s body, he sighs blissfully, all turmoil forgotten for the moment. The kid’s fingers, toes and nose are still cold in a sharp contrast to the rest of him, but he feels relaxed enough for Chibs to loosen up a bit, too. 

Juice burrows his face into his chest, arms around him, and is asleep immediately the lucky bastard. 

Chibs holds him like he’s a shiny porcelain vessel of a person that got shattered and if god forbid he only moves or closes his eyes for a second, all the pieces will disperse to the ground with no chance to mend them together ever again. 

+++

He wakes up in the world that is too bright and hot with uncomfortable stiffness all over the limbs, with the familiar weight pressing him down. 

Juice is mouthing idly along his cheek, following the path of the scar that splits the muscle, and even when it gets obscured by the hair, he knows where to follow it underneath. 

“Got my pills down an hour ago,” Juice informs him. “Good shit. Bob sure knows his trade well”.

“Why is he even Bob?” Chibs mumbles. Tig’s contacts rarely have names, and on those occasions, they do it’s the most bizarre porn-like aliases he’s ever heard. Makes it easier to distinguish them. Not “Bob”, though -- he’s going to forget fucking Bob even faster now.

Juice snorts at his tone. “Got a bit too personal with my ass, too. Poked it with needles and all that.”

He has the club t-shirt on and two band-aids that cover the punctures on the ass in question. Chibs squeezes it lightly, bouncy round flesh filling up his hands with such familiarity, it’s almost like touching his own body at this point. 

He then leans back, studying Juice’s face carefully, taking note of the bloodshot eyes and the circles under the eyes that are a shade darker than usual.

“You’re getting weird about it again, old man”, Juice whispers, kissing him. “Wanna poke my ass some?”

He doesn’t wait for the answer, crawling up. When he sits himself down on the face he’s been just kissing, the club t-shirt rolled up his torso, the reaper stares Chibs down from it, empty-eyed, and the sturdy thighs on each side of his head block the distracting hum of his worried thoughts. 

The smell of the skin is so sweet and addictive, and the intimacy of it brings him true serenity. There’s peace between the other man’s legs, and it’s funny how Chibs finds it where he never bothered to look before.

He makes an honest attempt to fight Juice off when he slides down again, mouth wet against his cheeks. He’s gasping and rubbing his reddened face against the comforter -- it’s nasty, it’s gross -- but they’re pretty fucked up themselves, so it’s oddly fitting. And Juice is laughing with the gruff sex laugh of his, the one that gives Chibs a pavlovian erection each time, and steals kisses from him one after another until he’s delirious with want and has no thoughts in his head whatsoever. 

Juice takes him inside at his own speed, no rush, and he’s restored to grunts, rubbing the kid’s lower back to ease it up for him a little, until he’s completely settled into the cradle of his hips.

He nearly blurts out an iloveyou, provoked solely by looking at Juice, so strong and vulnerable, and beautiful, and his. And it shouldn’t be like this. A good, proper “I love you” shouldn’t be delivered amidst fucking, but knowing his own rabbit heart it’s the only way it’ll ever be possible, he is aware of that. When he looks up at Juice, he knows Juice is aware of it, too. 

He pushes his hips into the body above him harder and harder, fingers around Juice’s waist like a corset, holding him upright. The other pair of hands covers his as Juice pushes down, rubbing his dick against his stomach until he comes, gasping, kissing Chibs’ red face again and again. 

Juice stays seated atop of him long after they’ve done, tracing the mess they’ve made with his fingers. And in the morning sun, he doesn’t look dead anymore -- he looks like he’s alright. For the short moment in time, they both do.


End file.
